Alternate ending of Help Me
by Eagles Meow
Summary: No Huddy! Hurt!House. T for mild-ish language
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Of course.

A/N: I, like many others, was disappointed by the most recent episode, _Help Me_. However, it was a good direction until House broke the mirror. I'm starting an alternate ending of that episode, from 38:17, when House was talking to Foreman and he leans against the desk.

My leg was killing me. I'd been in and out of the wreckage for almost eight, catering to Hannah's every wish. As if it did any good. I'd ignored her most fervent demand, that I save her leg. I ignored her, told myself that it was in _her best interests_. Because of that, she lost not only her limb, but her life.

I knew that anybody who saw me right then, limping slowly into the hospital, would have told me that it was stress due to a long day. An emotional response to a situation that brought up bad memories. If only my leg felt the same way. I just barely made it to the information desk. I'd been hurrying across the lobby in a vain attempt to get to my office, where I could stretch out my leg, perhaps with a heating pad.

Today wasn't my lucky day. I hadn't even made it halfway to the elevators, much less to the right floor, when my leg gave up. I leaned heavily against the desk, taking some of the stress off an overworked leg.

Foreman's concern about my emotional state irritated me. That wasn't my most pressing concern at the moment. More worrisome was the spasming muscles in my ruined thigh. It took all my self-restraint to keep from lashing out, hitting him. I sharply ordered him to leave me alone. I could take care of myself, and damn it, I _would_.

Foreman must have seen something in my expression, since he moved to the side, letting me continue my lopsided, aching, limp to even a small bit of relaxation. I'd given up on the idea of going to my office, knowing that once I sat down, I wouldn't physically be able to get up again.

I was running on the last dregs of an adrenalin high. Once that was used up, I'd be spent. I had to get home before I collapsed. I'd managed to hide all signs of pain since Mayfield, evading Wilson's need to have me dependent on him. I wasn't _dependent_ on anybody, or anything. I stayed on the ibuprofen, off the Vicodin, to prove that.

This was one battle that I knew I'd lose sooner or later. Not tonight, though. Tonight, I just concentrated on getting into a cab. The driver offered to help me inside, but I declined-perhaps a little sharper than strictly necessary.

Finally, I was in my apartment. I considered taking the Vicodin, I knew where some was hidden. There was one bottle, a safety bottle, that had evaded all attempts at detection. I didn't bother with it right now, though. I knew from many long nights that there are some times when even it can't help me.

At that moment, I seriously doubted that even morphine could ease the ache in my leg. I thought back to the last time my leg had gotten even nearly this bad, back three or four years ago. Pacing sometimes helped loosen up the muscles.

I was desperate enough to try anything. I made my way over to the well-worn circuit around my couch. My lack of a cane didn't help matters any. Instead, I ended up having to rely on my arms for balance, clutching at anything that provided me with a bit of help keeping upright. My leg started to burn, but I kept going.

On my second circuit, I felt my leg give out. I fell onto the floor-on my right side. At that moment, it was too much for me and I succumbed to the inviting darkness.

* * *

I could feel somebody tugging on my arm, their insistent voice cutting through the darkness. "House, come on, wake up." It sounded like it was coming through a tunnel, but I'd know that voice anywhere. I groaned, trying to sit up, for Wilson's sake, if not my own.

Bad move on my part. I was on my right side, and I was now completely stiff. Not only my thigh, but my knee and hip as well. Sitting up brought on an acute wave of nausea, and I threw up all over the floor.

Wilson sighed in disgust. "Will you _never_ learn?"

I assumed he thought I'd overdosed on something, but before I could say anything, Wilson walked away, leaving me alone in a puddle of my own vomit. _Again_. Except this time, it wasn't my fault, not really. I'd followed Nolan's orders, and Wilson's. I stayed on the meds they gave me, even on the days where I could barely get out of bed.

Today was worse than any of those days. I managed to get over the two or three feet to the couch, and I pulled off a pillow for my head. I might as well do my best to get comfortable. This promised to be a long night.

* * *

A/N: So, what do you think? I think this should be a two-shot, if anyone's interested.

PS: Yes, I'm working on my other stories. This is just a late-night thing. Letters is finished, I just have to post it.


	2. Chapter 2

That night, I walked away from House without a backwards glance, back to my ex-wife. It wasn't until the next day that I started to get worried. Like it or not, I'm House's only friend. I knew that I'd feel guilty if House died because I wasn't there to save him, like usual.

Sighing, I decided to stop by on my way in. If he was fine, I didn't need to bother Sam. We'd agreed that I would stop it with House or lose her.

It never was much of a competition. At least, I thought it wasn't, until I realized how ambiguous that line-all my lines, all my thoughts-were. The self-evaluation could wait. I had to say goodbye to Sam, and check on House.

That's how I ended up knocking on House's door later that morning. I'd almost managed to talk myself out of it by then, but I figured that I might as well check up on him, since I was already there. I wasn't even sure what I thought it was. House was on the floor of his apartment in a puddle of vomit after something that had the distinct possibility of dragging up things House would rather forget.

My belief was strengthened when there was no answer to the door. I unlocked the place and let myself in for the second time in fewer than twenty-four hours.

Either House had managed to move a few feet after I left, or somebody else had been here, since there was a pillow under his head.

I was fighting myself the whole way, but I decided to wake him up. I'd heard the expression _let sleeping dogs lie_ but I wasn't sure if it was applicable here. I wasn't fully sure House was sleeping, no matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise.

I looked closely at House and something snapped. I wasn't sure how I hadn't noticed it before. House was shaking slightly, his hands balled up into fists. I rushed over to him, not entirely sure what to do. I wasn't fully convinced that this wasn't emotional, but there are some times when even psychosomatic pain has to be treated. Namely, when it's stressing the system to the point that there's a definite possibility that his heart rate could cause major health problems, as I suspected here as I put my hand on his, checking the pulse in his wrist.

It was elevated, like I'd suspected. "House? This is me, Wilson. I need you to sit up."

I held my breath, but House didn't respond. I shook his shoulder, trying to get him to move. When that was ineffective, I decided to try the direct approach, grabbing his shoulder and forcibly pulling him upright.

Bad move, I guess. House screamed. Not moaned, a full out scream. I hadn't heard anything like that in years.

I felt absurdly guilty. How was I supposed to know that he was hurt? It didn't matter the excuses, my friend was screaming in agony. I dropped him like I'd been burned, and he fell, gasping, into the pillow.

I knew I had to get him up, but I was going to be more careful this time. I couldn't hurt him more than he'd already been hurt. That would be unbearable to me. I had to figure out a way to get House somewhere soft, and hopefully calm enough that I could ask him what had happened.

Thing is, I simply couldn't think of a reason that he'd be hurt. He didn't have any real injuries, just a small cut on his shoulder, and some scrapes on his face. It couldn't be his leg, he hadn't been complaining since he came back from Mayfield.

_Most days, he hasn't been going through a veritable obstacle course._

My concince reminded me quietly. I might as well check. I put my hand gently against his leg. House screamed and tried to pull away, but before he did, I felt it. His muscles were spasming out of control. I could remember a few times from right after the infarction when he'd complained of this. Usually, the complaints were right after PT, but then I remembered that this had probably been PT from Hell for him. Some days, he gets away with barely moving from his desk chair the entire day, and today his whole day had been spent crawling through rubble. I had to wonder why Cuddy had sent him there.

She, like the rest of us, probably forgot. House has been exceptionally quiet recently, rarely complaining about his leg. I'm sure part of it was him being off opiates, he didn't have the pain from the pills anymore, but he still had _pain_, I was sure of it.

I could remember how he'd acted when he was on ketamine. I had no doubt that he'd have ditched the cane immediately if he'd actually felt any better.

On second thought, it probably was his leg doing this to him. Shit, that meant that it would _continue_, if I couldn't get him off the floor, and get it elevated. That probably wouldn't be a good idea either, at this moment. He'd reacted quite violently to sitting up. I shuddered to think of trying to actually move his leg right now.

I shook House more urgently. I knew he was awake. "House, I need you to tell me where you keep the morphine."

At least House responded, though it wasn't a very helpful response. He laughed quietly. "No...morphine" he gasped.

I frowned. "House, I won't judge you. I can tell that you need this for an actual physical condition."

"None...here...had to stay...clean."

I ached for my best friend. He'd disposed of his safety medications in a desperate attempt to stay clean. I never thought that he would ever dispose of a last cache of the stuff, but he did, willingly.

I was in a dilemma, though. I needed to get House something, because he was shaking and crying, sobbing. As I was sitting there, the tears paused for a short while. House stared at me, catching my eye for just a second. "Help me" he pleaded.

There was nothing to help him with, though. This was a paradox, I could not leave him alone, there was still a serious risk of his elevated heart rate getting out of control, yet the risk would remain until I left, to get morphine.

This was one of the few situations with House where I would readily agree that he needed morphine. I didn't have to ask for a number. The fact that he couldn't move spoke for itself.

Then, I realized another variable, the phone. Mind you, I only realized because it was ringing insistently. I hurried over to get it, hoping against hope that it was somebody from the hospital.

To my relief, I heard Foreman's voice.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry for the massive disappearance lately. I had no time to do this recently; I had tons of homework last weekend, and I was out with friends most of the weekend before. You should get tons of new fic on the 20th, I'm going to be on a plane with my laptop for fourteen hours. Also, thank you all for reviewing. You have no idea how much every single review, favorite, and story alert means to me. I'm not quite sure if this is how I wanted it to turn out, I'll see if I want to continue it/change it later, but for now this is it.

"House? Look, I know you were... I mean, nobody will hold it against you if you don't come in... Hello?"

"Foreman, it's Wilson."

"Wilson? Why are _you_ there?" I detected a bit of resentment in Foreman's tone, and some confusion. I had to admit even to myself that I hadn't been a very good friend recently. That could be dealt with later, though. I had a more pressing matter to contend with.

"Foreman, that can wait. House is..." I didn't know what to say. House values his privacy so much.

"Yeah, I think I get the picture. I saw him yesterday night, before he went home. I don't know how he was still upright. He practically bit my head off, though."

Foreman wasn't the ideal person in this situation, but he'd have to do. "Look, I need you to help me out a bit here. House _passed out_ due to the pain, and there's no morphine around." I looked carefully at House, trying to assess his physical state without touching him. "Could you please bring over some morphine, and some stuff to clean him up with?"

Foreman didn't even bother replying, he quickly hung up

I held House anxiously as I waited for Foreman to return with his pain meds. House was probably too out of it at this point to hear me, but I sat next to him anyways, whispering comfortingly. "Hold on, House. Help is on the way."

House didn't dignify that with a real response, just a shaky, quiet laugh that quickly turned into a grimace. I gently reached over and gently touched House's leg once again. It was spasming, as I'd feared. I gently took my hand away again, knowing that the touch was making House uncomfortable and in more pain than usual.

It seemed like hours later when I heard a knock on the door. It had to be Foreman; who else would be here?

"It's open!" I called out. I didn't want to risk jostling my friend by getting up.

Foreman quietly stepped into the room. "Shit," he whispered. I just nodded sadly. Nobody should have to deal with this sort of pain.

Foreman leaned down, carefully injecting House with the morphine. We sat there with baited breath, hoping that this would do the trick.

At last, House calmed down, sinking into my arms. Foreman helped me lift him up and carry him into his bed. I pulled blankets up around him, making sure to get his leg elevated. It promised to kill him tomorrow.

But, tomorrow was tomorrow. For now, I just wanted to make sure that he was going to be okay. We'd have to talk in the morning; nobody should ever have to be in that much pain.

House and I, and perhaps Foreman, would find him the right meds. I wouldn't leave my friend for whichever woman I was dating. We'd been through far too much together.


End file.
